


Heir Apparent

by taywen



Series: Arthur in the House [5]
Category: Keys to the Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23274205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taywen/pseuds/taywen
Summary: Arthur returns to the House to take up his inheritance. Not everyone is pleased.
Series: Arthur in the House [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/54306
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur stared unseeing at the clock for several long minutes, his breath coming faster and faster; if not for the Key still clutched in one hand, he would have fallen into a full-on asthma attack. As it was, he distantly realized that he was exhibiting several symptoms of a panic attack: difficulty breathing, chills, racing heart—but he could only focus on thoughts of Friday’s Dawn.

The Denizen was one of Arthur’s more thoughtful caretakers; certainly, he was the most overbearing. He was diligent and dutiful, as most Denizens were, but he lacked the blind obedience to authority that was another key Denizen characteristic. Arthur had been aware from a young age that Dawn’s loyalty lay with him rather than Lady Friday; the Morrow Day herself did not particularly care, so long as Dawn’s efforts kept the Middle House functioning and spared her having to oversee it herself. There was no guarantee that the new Master of the Middle House—whomever they might be—would be so understanding; Arthur couldn’t imagine Dawn feigning obedience and respect for any length of time. What if they hurt Dawn? What if—

His cell phone started ringing. Arthur flinched, but the familiar ringtone was enough to snap him out of his spiraling thoughts. His hand shook slightly when he reached for it, then he remembered that he still had the Key in that hand; with an impatient sound, he grabbed the phone with his free hand and swiped to answer it.

“Arthur!” Monday’s voice seemed to come from the space next to him rather than the speaker Arthur held to his ear, a quirk particular to the highest-ranking Denizens. “You must return to the House immediately.”

Arthur rubbed a hand over his eyes, nearly stabbing himself with the point of his Key. He needed to get it together. “How? Has the House manifested nearby?”

“There is a nearby hospital that connects to the Front Door on Fridays, but that passage must lead to the Middle House,” Monday said slowly. “The Demesnes can only connect to Earth on their corresponding days.”

“So Saturday’s Vestibule is right out,” muttered Arthur. He typically returned to the House on a Saturday, but the next one was still twenty-three hours and change away. Even if Saturday exerted her power to draw Earth’s time forward to her appointed day, Arthur would still have to live through those hours, though it would pass in the blink of an eye in the House.

“Saturday herself is unavailable.”

“ _What_? Has the Upper House fallen too?” The Middle House bordered the Upper physically and sequentially, but Arthur could not imagine someone besides Sunday besting Saturday. And without the advantage of his paramount Key, Arthur probably wouldn’t put his money on Sunday either. The next closest Demesnes to the Middle House were the Great Maze (sequentially) and the Lower House (physically). “Is everything okay in the Lower House?”

“I do not know what transpires above, but our borders remain secure for now.”

Arthur sat up straighter. _Our_ borders. The reminder that he had partial Mastery over the Lower House still startled him every time. He carried the Minute Hand around with him everywhere, just like his cell phone, but he thought of it as little more than a tool like his phone. Useful, and indisputably essential to his current life, though still just a tool. But it was much more than that.

“Friday’s Dawn sent a message out earlier,” Monday continued, his steady voice serving to calm Arthur, though his words were hardly soothing, “but he did not name the new Lord or Lady of the Middle House. I have sent several messages addressed to Lady Friday, but they have all been returned opened with no reply. By contrast, the Upper House has been closed to all outsiders: no communication can go in or, presumably, come out, and all elevator routes into that Demesne have been shut down. The Denizens directly connected to that Demesne were all recalled as well.”

“So I shouldn’t expect help from the House until Sunday.”

“I fear not. Which is why you must make your own way to the House as soon as possible.”

Arthur stood and went to the window, cracking open the blinds so he could see out into the side yard. The house sat in the middle of a veritable estate covered in extravagant landscaping that was maintained on a weekly basis by Sunday’s Times; the design itself had come from Sunday. It was a cloudy night, so the light of the waning moon was only weak, but nothing looked out of the ordinary: the shadowed shapes were only Sunday’s ostentatious ornaments and topiaries.

“How do we know that whoever has taken the Middle House is an enemy?”

“Dawn’s message suggested as much. They may have only held the Middle House for a few days, but we cannot underestimate them. Friday is an accomplished sorceror in her own right; whoever wrested the Fifth Key from her must be powerful indeed.”

Arthur nodded. “Yeah—” He leaned closer to the window, squinting. “There’s something outside.”

“Set the Dials!” ordered Monday. In the background, Sneezer murmured his affirmative. “Describe it to me, Arthur.”

“It’s hiding. I can just see it moving between pieces of cover.” Arthur tightened his grip around the Key. “Bar the windows and the doors,” he said softly, heartened when his door closed and locked behind himself. His bedroom was on the third storey, but most Denizens and some Nithlings had wings, so that didn’t mean he was safe.

“It is some kind of Nithling,” said Monday. “Curse this darkness. Can you not brighten the scene?” This last seemed directed at Sneezer.

Arthur dropped his phone on the bed and dug out the pair of Immaterial Boots he kept tucked beneath it. They had taken the form of a new pair of athletic shoes when they were first brought to Earth, changing size and style as Arthur grew. Then he went to his closet to grab his brightcoat.

“It’s a Grannow-Hoinch,” Monday said urgently.

“A what?” The name didn’t ring any bells, but judging by Monday’s tone, the Nithling was dangerous. Arthur shrugged the brightcoat on and shoved his feet into the Immaterial Boots, not bothering to change out of his pyjamas or pull on a pair of socks. He paused only to grab his wrist sheath for the Key and his phone, pulling the former on and shoving the latter in his pocket.

“A creation of pure Nothing encased in a silver frame—”

Something crashed into the house, shaking the whole structure.

Arthur staggered, then kept moving forward toward the door. “How big is it?!” Sunday’s lawn decorations weren’t _that_ massive. Surely something big enough to rock Arthur’s oversized house couldn’t have hidden behind them.

“Large,” Monday said grimly as Arthur stepped into the dim hallway. “It has a six-foot long horn. A single touch from the Key should end it, however.”

Arthur looked down at his Key. The Minute Hand was less than a foot long. Could he even get close enough to touch the Nithling without being gored?

A splintering crash sounded from below as Arthur started for the main staircase; the Nithling gave a triumphant shriek that made Arthur flinch.

“Take the other stairs!”

Arthur turned and made his way to the servants’ stairs. The house was a new build, not even seven years old, so there was no need for the steep staircase with its low, sloping ceiling tucked in the back corner of the house—the steps had probably been added on a whim by one of the Morrow Days, but Arthur wasn’t going to complain about that now.

“How will the Nithling affect Earth?” Saturday’s Dusk had put him to study various types of Nithlings, though Arthur couldn’t remember any details about the Grannow-Hoinch. But only a handful of them had no inimical effects upon the Secondary Realms. Even relatively minor Nithlings like Fetchers could cause epidemics.

“Its cry has been known to drive mortals mad,” said Monday, barely audible over the Nithling’s next scream. It was much closer now: he could hear the beast bulling its way up the main stairs.

“Great,” muttered Arthur. Hopefully his neighbours were out for the night or far enough away that they couldn’t hear the piercing shrieks. He halted a few steps above the second-floor landing, barely breathing; the Nithling had just reached that hallway at the opposite end. The corridor was dark, but all Nithlings had night vision. The floor joists creaked and groaned, but he couldn’t hear any footsteps; on the storey below, something crashed to the floor. One of the weird metal statues Tuesday insisted on gifting him, maybe.

“It knows you’re there! Run!”

Monday’s shout galvanized him into motion. He almost tumbled to the landing, grabbing for the wall—the servants’ stairs had to have that period-accurate lack of railings!—for balance as he launched himself down the next flight of stairs. The Nithling was a mass of darkness encased in a faintly luminous silver frame, barreling down the hallway with a speed that belied its massive size.

The staircase shook as the Nithling slammed into the opening; Arthur staggered, but managed to keep his footing. Unfortunately for the creature, the smaller dimensions of these stairs prevented it from giving chase immediately; it rammed into the opening again a few seconds later, to the sound of splintering wood. Dust and bits of debris rained down on Arthur’s head as he skidded into the kitchen.

He stabbed at the garden door with the Key; it swung open at his unspoken command and he tumbled out onto the deck. The Nithling screamed again behind him, much too close for comfort. Arthur darted into the literal hedge maze of his backyard that Sunday had designed on a whim last year: it took up over an acre, which was actually larger than the house’s original lot, but as if Sunday would let something as petty as mortal property law stop him.

Sunday liked spending time in the maze when he visited, so Arthur was rather more familiar with its layout than he would’ve preferred—which was fortunate, for even in the darkness, everything cast in shades of grey and shadow, he still knew which paths and corners to take to reach the pavilion at its centre. Sunday had created the pavilion himself, forging it from Nothing in a matter of minutes: the Immaterial structure would hopefully slow the Nithling enough for Arthur to face it.

A few minutes later, the pavilion appeared before him, fairly gleaming in the faint moonlight. Arthur ran up the steps, clearing the furniture beneath its domed roof with a sweep of his Key. He stopped in the centre of the floor and turned to face the oncoming Nithling. With the added height of a few steps, the Nithling’s path of destruction was plain to see: a gaping hole in the wall was all that remained of the garden doors, and the ruined hedges showed that it hadn’t bothered following the maze’s twists and turns.

Its massive horn pierced the hedge first, followed by the rest of its bulk smashing through that last wall of greenery. It paused in the open space before the pavilion, the horn pointed unerringly at Arthur. It had no eyes that he could discern, nor any sort of mouth—not that that fact stopped it from giving another ear-splitting shriek before it lowered its horn and charged.

Arthur’s grip tightened around the Key; he barely noticed the sting of its sharp edges digging into his hand. He longed for the familiar grip of his rapier—he’d told Thursday he wouldn’t need it on Earth when the Overlord tried to press it upon him—though the Key in his grasp was far stronger. It felt like meagre protection against the huge Nithling.

The railing around the pavilion buckled almost as soon as the Nithling rammed into it, but even that second of resistance was enough to slow it considerably. Arthur ducked under the horn just before it would have speared him, dodging to the side. The Nithling’s momentum carried it forward; it began to turn, its horn swinging around, and Arthur jabbed the point of the Key into the silver encasing the deadly horn.

The Grannow-Hoinch screamed once more, its cry abruptly cut off as the silver simply corroded away before his eyes, crawling down the length of the horn toward the bulk of the Nithling itself. The Nothing contained within the frame dissolved with it—

“Watch out!” cried Monday.

—but slowly enough that the beast’s silver-encased chest slammed into him.

“Fuck,” said Arthur as his feet left the floor.

He didn’t remember hitting the ground.

* * *

“Arthur.”

For a few blissful seconds after hearing that familiar, rough voice, Arthur thought that everything had just been a bad dream.

“Wake up,” hissed Friday’s Dawn, shaking him hard enough that his teeth rattled together.

“I’m _awake_ —!” He flinched as Dawn clapped a hand over his mouth.

“You must go. My new master will be here soon, if he has not already arrived,” whispered Dawn.

Arthur sat up, trying not to groan. He was lying in the grass between the pavilion and the rest of the hedge maze. His whole body ached fiercely, but at least nothing seemed to be broken. His hand twinged—the Minute Hand was still clutched in his fingers. When he pulled his phone out of his pocket, it looked unscathed but the screen only lit briefly with the low battery icon. Drained.

“Who is he?”

Dawn’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. Arthur stared at the flash of his _silver_ tongue. “I cannot say,” Dawn—Noon?—finally said, obviously frustrated.

“You’re Noon now? Should I call you that?” Arthur had always thought Dawn ought to be Noon—it was Dawn that kept the Middle House running—but of course that was Friday’s decision to make.

The Denizen’s shoulders lifted; he looked extremely uncomfortable. “Call me what you will. I have been appointed the principal Hour of the Middle House—there are no other senior executives besides myself and my new master.”

That explained how the silver-tongued Denizen was present, despite the early hour: the eastern horizon was tinged with the first blush of sunrise. 

“Dawn, then,” said Arthur after a moment. The Denizen relaxed slightly. “Is Friday—?”

“She lives.” Dawn frowned. “Worry about yourself. Her successor should not be taken lightly.”

“Will _you_ be safe? I—I can take you on the Improbable Stair with me,” said Arthur, finally remembering what Tom had told him yesterday.

Dawn shook his head. “The Stair was not created for Denizens. If I wielded a Key, perhaps I could use it, but I cannot follow you upon it.”

So it was for the personal use of the Architect and Her family? If demi-mortals like the Piper’s children could use the Stair whenever they pleased, Suzy or one of the others definitely would have mentioned it to him by now.

“Any sign of him, Noon?” called a vaguely familiar voice. It wasn’t particularly smooth, and their accent was from the Flat. It was the voice of a Piper’s child. “You don’t think milord’s Nithling actually got Lord Arthur, do you?” They were close—probably just a turn or two away, in the hedge maze. If they followed the Nithling’s path, they’d find Dawn and Arthur waiting at the end.

“Go,” whispered Dawn harshly, rising to his feet and pulling Arthur upright in the same motion. “I will stall him. Use the steps.” The pavilion was pretty much ruined, but the steps were more or less intact. Dawn turned his back and strode away without waiting for a reply; Arthur stood there stupidly, expecting him to offer some reassurance or at least look back—but he didn’t.

Arthur ducked down behind a potted plant—another kind of hedge, different from the variety Sunday had used for the maze itself. It had been trimmed into the shape of some animal native to the Secondary Realm from which Sunday originated. Apparently the creatures were huge, because the topiary concealed him completely from anyone standing in the path of destruction made by the Grannow-Hoinch.

 _Focus_. He needed to focus. He needed to leave Earth and return to the House. Anywhere would do, apart from the Middle House. Well, he didn’t want to end up in the Far Reaches, since he’d only ever been within the pyramid, which only Tuesday had access to… And the Border Sea probably wasn’t a great choice either, though at least he could take an elevator out from Port Wednesday; Dawn was usually carrying out her various duties elsewhere on the Sea when it wasn’t Wednesday. The Great Maze was out too: they were in the midst of an important campaign. And Monday had said the Upper House was closed—

The Lower House, then. Monday had seemed on top of things. Arthur took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself, and focused on a set of stairs stretching up into the sky. It was only three steps up to the pavilion, where Dawn was talking to a Piper’s child Arthur didn’t know, but he was already committed by the time he realized.

The boy threw himself at Arthur as he reached the top step, wrapping skinny arms around him as Arthur stepped onto the invisible fourth step. His foot landed on a surface much more solid than the Immaterial wood of the pavilion: it felt like some kind of stone—marble, maybe, though no marble on Earth was such a luminous white. The entire space was saturated in light—Arthur could only see the Stair stretching away ever upward.

The child cried out, his arms loosening; Arthur grabbed his wrist instinctively. Tom hadn’t said what would happen if someone fell off the Improbable Stair, but it probably wasn’t anything good. The step seemed to tilt beneath him, as if responding to his thoughts—Arthur forced himself to focus, ignoring the boy’s words as he kept climbing. After a few more steps, the Stair firmed beneath him again.

Someone cursed above him: the voice was male, and as pleasing to the ear as Sunday’s—if not more so—despite the anger in it.

“Damn all these Landings!” snarled the other climber.

The boy stiffened in Arthur’s grip, and took in a breath—

“Quiet,” hissed Arthur. The Key in his hand grew warmer, and the boy was silent.

The Stair stretched on before him, ascending into that impenetrable light—and then the other climber stepped out of the light, as if he’d simply rounded a corner. Arthur was sprinting by then, so he had only a moment to register the figure: a smooth steel mask beneath a frankly ridiculous hat, and a startlingly yellow greatcoat.

“Who—”

Arthur didn’t answer and kept running, but his thoughts stuck on the figure. That outfit had been rather distinctive; he couldn’t think of any prominent person in the House who matched that description.

Beneath his feet, the Improbable Stair seemed to shiver. Five steps later, he tumbled out in the Incomparable Gardens.

But they were not the Incomparable Gardens he knew.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur had emerged on the Elysium, but it lacked the cage of death and—presumably—Part Seven of the Will trapped within. A swift glance around revealed three figures of varying degrees of familiarity sitting around a table; the vast expanse of the demesne beyond the hill was almost unrecognizable. The orderly arrangement of Sunday’s Exhibits was absent, but the greenery was not entirely wild either. The paths between orchards and field were not as rigidly defined as they were in Arthur’s day, but the longer he stared, the more it seemed that the flora had been encouraged to grow in such a way as to form the paths as naturally as possible.

“Who are you?”

The voice was too cold, but undeniably Sunday’s.

The Architect’s eldest son looked about the same as Arthur knew him, though his clothes were totally foreign. Arthur was ninety-nine percent sure that was a toga. Tuesday sometimes talked about past fashions of the House, and there’d definitely been mention of an Ancient Roman phase at some point. Seated—well, reclined—next to him, Tom looked decades younger. Probably only a few years older than Arthur himself. The resemblance between the two brothers was a lot more obvious now that they appeared to be closer in age. The third klinai was occupied by a boy around Arthur’s age, who looked a bit like Sunday and a bit like Tom and could only have been the Piper.

“Lord Piper!” gasped the Piper’s child, which was confirmation enough.

Arthur looked at the boy, who was staring with wide, hopeful eyes at the Piper, then down at the Minute Hand. It felt like a mundane piece of metal, a little cool to the touch, as if it had only been warmed by the heat of Arthur’s own skin and not by the power it embodied.

“Lord? _Piper_?” Sunday’s lip curled back; he looked faintly incredulous, but mostly he just looked haughty and disdainful.

“We need to get back on the Improbable Stair,” said Arthur. He couldn’t deal with this right now. Obviously, this was a Landing, and they needed to keep moving or risk being trapped in—the middle of the brothers’ dinner? Arthur dragged the boy to the edge of the clearing, and the steps cut into the side of the hill. The other climber had been going down the Stair, but Arthur didn’t trust that. He needed to go down to the next terrace, and then get back on the Stair by climbing up again—

“Did you say the Improbable Stair?” said the voice that Arthur had first heard on those liminal steps. It was a little higher in tone now, but still just as musical and perfect. The Piper’s child shivered, tugging slightly against Arthur’s grip, as if he meant to go over to the speaker. To the Piper.

The Piper, who had taken the Middle House. Who was now standing next to them, studying them with obvious curiosity.

“He did, milord,” said the boy.

“You look human.” The Piper tilted his head. His eyes were bright as he looked them up and down. “But I’ve never seen this kind of fashion before. Your attire doesn’t seem to match, either.”

Current House fashion was set to Earth’s Victorian era, which was over a century in current Earth’s past. Though that was pretty up to date for the House, all things considered. Still, Arthur’s contemporary clothes bore little resemblance to House fashion, and considering he was actually still in pyjamas under his brightcoat—which had taken the form of a light jacket—yeah, he could see the Piper’s issue.

“I’m from Earth,” said Arthur, thinking fast. “But it’s not the Earth you’re familiar with.”

The Piper looked delighted, spinning to address his brothers. “Have either of you ever hit a Landing that was from the past?”

Sunday’s brow creased. “Only an undisciplined mind reaches Landings before its destination.” Obviously, he was too disciplined for such things. 

Next to him, Tom rolled his eyes. “I’ve Landed in the pasts of various Secondary Realms, but never within the House.”

The Piper nodded. “It’s the same for me—” He turned back to Arthur and the boy, but his smile went stiff, his eyes caught on something behind them.

“Have you brought more mortals into My House, dear one?”

Arthur shuddered at the sound of that voice, something in him wanting to shrivel up and beg for forgiveness for the faint note of displeasure in it; the Piper’s child cowered, and probably would have fallen if Arthur hadn’t still held his wrist. An impossibly beautiful woman stood before him when Arthur managed to turn and face Her.

“Our House, surely,” said the man next to Her. He was not nearly as beautiful; Arthur hadn’t even noticed him before he spoke up. The Architect’s sons all resembled him, so he could only be the Old One. “But no. These children aren’t here by my doing.” His eyes fell to the inert Key in Arthur’s hand, widening slightly at the sight of it.

“Thankfully,” muttered Sunday. “Two brothers is more than enough.”

“I’d like the chance to be an older brother,” said the Piper.

“Curious,” murmured the Architect, stepping closer.

Arthur could only tilt his head back to stare at Her as She drew near. He couldn’t look away even though he desperately wanted to; Her presence was completely overwhelming.

“You were discussing the Improbable Stair.” Her eyes bored into him. “From where do you come, mortal boy?”

“Earth.” The word slipped past his lips without his consent.

“Perhaps _when_ is the more pertinent question,” said the Old One. “He holds—”

“Yes. He does have some dominion over My House. Or he will.”

Arthur could barely make out the Old One’s words. He could hear the brothers speaking, but from a distance, utterly unintelligible.

“Who are you?”

Once more, he was powerless to resist Her question. “Arthur.” He tried to add _Weeks_ , but the assumed name would not come out. _Penhaligon_ was just as impossible to voice.

“Arthur.” There was no spark of recognition—as it should be. Tom hadn’t explained if Landings actually affected the present, or the past, but neither had he mentioned meeting Arthur before. The Architect gazed down at him, seemingly indifferent to the proceedings. “How did you come to hold the Minute Hand?”

“Monday ceded it to me.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly; Arthur fought not to cringe. “Why.”

It wasn’t a question, and so Arthur was not compelled to answer. He could say what he liked. “Why did he give me the Key?”

“Why did I give the Key to this—Monday.” Obviously, She did not know this name either. Well, he’d always known the House’s top administrators had had different names _before_. 

“You made a Will, and appointed Trustees to carry it out. Monday is one of them. Giving me the Key fulfills part of it.”

The Architect frowned, but Her eyes were distant; without the intense pressure of Her attention upon him, Arthur could look away. The Old One was watching him thoughtfully, and the brothers were discussing Arthur’s sudden appearance. Well—the Piper was speaking excitedly, but Tom’s replies were reserved, and Sunday said nothing at all.

Was that how things would be in the present? Arthur had only seen Tom and Sunday interact twice—both times had been awkward and stilted—but the Piper was a mystery. Obviously, something had happened to make him go after Friday and, presumably, the rest of the House, but Arthur couldn’t begin to guess what it was.

Then again, Arthur had found Tom imprisoned in Tuesday’s Treasure Pyramid, so that _something_ that happened to the Piper might be pretty bad. It was no use asking him now though, and it wasn’t as if Arthur could warn the Piper about it.

His eyes strayed back to the Old One. Unlike the Architect, he was still in the House in the present time, though Arthur had never met him. He knew of the Architect’s other half only by reputation—from what Saturday and Sunday had told him, and whispers he’d gleaned from lower Denizens who feared the Deep Coal Cellar where the Old One was eternally chained.

If he warned the Old One that the Architect would one day grow so angry that She would chain him to a clock to be gruesomely punished every twelve hours—But what if he _did_ remember. Who could predict how such a thing might affect the future? And even if Arthur wanted to, the Architect was still standing right there, able to hear every word. She could end him with a snap of Her fingers; perhaps with nothing more than a thought.

“You recognize me,” said the Old One.

He could not compel Arthur to answer as the Architect had—or perhaps he chose not to. But Arthur answered truthfully all the same: “Yes.”

“From what era have you come? How fares the Roman Republic?”

Arthur could have taken an Ancient Civilization elective in his last year of high school, but he’d chosen a more contemporary class instead. The House’s records of Earth’s past were exhaustive, but the same could not be said of the more recent records. If he needed to know about the distant past, he could just look it up in the House—or so he’d assumed. Now, he kind of regretted passing on that class.

“Uh, it’s—Rome is still around.”

“Civilizations rise and fall in the blink of an eye,” said Sunday. “I do not understand why you think Earth and its disparate polities will be any different. From his attire, it is obvious much has changed.”

“You’re just jealous—”

“—Pietro,” said Tom warningly.

“—because ****** collapsed and all trace of it that remains is a bunch of dusty old records.”

“Never heard of that Realm,” mumbled the Piper’s child.

The name sounded familiar, although Arthur doubted he’d be able to pronounce it—much less spell it—even if he tried. Sunday had mentioned it once: the world that his mortal half was from.

“ _Your_ obsession with the Realm from which you originated is unseemly.” Sunday’s retort was sharp enough that Arthur might have flinched from it in more familiar circumstances. He’d never heard Sunday speak like that before. “You are no more mortal than myself or Tom, and even if Earth yet endures, there is no place for you there and there never was.”

The Old One’s brow creased, and he turned to deal with his bickering sons. Well, Tom was just sitting—reclining—there with a resigned look on his face.

The Piper’s child shuddered again, and Arthur found his attention drawn once more to the Architect; with difficulty, he met her gaze. He could not have said what colour Her eyes were, nor been able to describe the rest of Her features with any sort of detail beyond _impossibly beautiful_ —yet there was something terrifying about that beauty as well.

“You seek to fulfill some purpose on my behalf, mortal.”

“Yes.” Somehow, he managed to limit his answer to that, though he could feel more words lining his throat, resting heavy on his tongue—just waiting to slip past his lips if he let his focus waver for even a second.

“Yet that is not the full truth.” The Architect bent toward him. Her presence was even more overwhelming up close. Arthur clenched his jaw on the words threatening to escape. “You would lie to me.”

“Perhaps he merely seeks to preserve his present, Mother.” The Piper stepped up to Her side, his hand lifting as if to touch Her—though he did not actually make contact. “Arthur has obviously stumbled onto a Landing. If he tells you too much of our future, that future may be altered with unknown consequences or results. Obviously, he knows all of us. Is that not right?”

“Yes.” Arthur and the Piper’s child said it at the same time.

The Piper smiled at them, but as he turned to address the Architect once more, the Old One came over as well.

“Were you not lamenting my involvement in that incident on Avraxyn? Surely this is a similar case, my dear.”

The Architect’s eyes flashed as She rounded on the Old One. “It is not—”

“Go,” whispered the Piper. “If you stay too long, you might get stuck!”

Arthur flinched. “Yes, I—thanks.”

The Piper grinned back. He was several inches taller than Arthur, though that did little to actually hide him and the Piper’s child from the Architect when he casually sidled in between them and his arguing parents. Still, the stairs down from the terrace were close.

“Come on.” Arthur tugged at the hand of the Piper’s child. The boy was staring at the Piper’s back, and he twitched in obvious surprise at the pull.

“Yes, milord.” He trotted dutifully after Arthur as they hurried to the steps.

“Just—Arthur is fine.” Arthur cast a glance back just before they started down: Sunday and Tom remained at the triclinium. Tom was resignedly eating, but Sunday’s dark eyes stared coldly at Arthur. He flinched again at the utter lack of anything familiar there, and all but ran down the stairs.

“Hold on to my hand. I don’t know what will happen if you let go while we’re on the Improbable Stair. You might end up on another Landing, and you’ll probably be stuck there,” warned Arthur as they neared the next terrace.

“Yessir.”

Arthur frowned, really looking at the Piper’s child for the first time. He was in a Regiment corporal’s uniform, though none of the Piper’s children were permanently assigned to the Great Maze—he must have been doing his mandatory century of service. “It’s just Arthur,” he said firmly. “What’s your name?”

“Fred Initial Letters Gold, si—Arthur.” His voice didn’t shake, but he still looked afraid. Was that how Arthur had looked before the Architect? He pushed the uneasy thought away.

“Right. I wish we’d met under better circumstances, Fred, but we’re stuck with each other for now.” Arthur paused at the bottom of the stairs. He could still hear the Architect’s voice. “I promise you won’t be hurt, even if you don’t—tell us anything. About the Middle House.”

Fred nodded, his gaze fixed on the ground. “I don’t know if I could even if I wanted to.”

Arthur nodded in return. “We’ll deal with that when we’re back in our time. Are you ready?” The Key seemed to hum faintly—a pale echo of its usual self—as he tightened his grip.

“I’m ready.”

Arthur closed his eyes as he took the first stone step, and when he opened them he was back on the Improbable Stair. The Key grew warm once more, thrumming with power.

“Where are we going?” asked Fred.

“The Lower House.” Arthur pictured his room as he spoke. It was next to Monday’s, at the centre of the Dayroom: Monday’s Dusk had painted the walls yellow, the same shade as Elephant, after Arthur had lost the toy when he was—eight or nine, wasn’t it?

“Never been there. I’m from the Middle House. Oh—I guess that was obvious.”

“Are you from Aurianburg?” The Improbable Stair shivered beneath him on the last word. “Actually, never mind,” Arthur said hurriedly. He didn’t want to end up in the Middle House by mistake, even if it was only on a Landing. He needed to focus on the Lower House. “The Grand Canal drains into the Record Reservoir. Apparently it used to be quite scenic, before—Well, you know. Monday’s working on it. The backlog bog is better than it was.”

“I heard the Canal’s moving more swiftly downstream than it used to. The foreman said Friday’s Dawn—um, the former Dawn—credited you for that improvement.” Fred’s voice had a questioning lilt, but Arthur could have ignored it.

Several upper executives of the House had voiced that same opinion—though none of the Trustees had said as much—but Arthur didn’t feel comfortable claiming any credit for himself. It wasn’t as if he’d actually _done_ anything. Monday and his Times handled the ever-shortening list of supplicants, working diligently to correct the issues that had cropped up over the past ten millennia. Though since he shared Mastery of the Lower House with Monday, he probably _should_ be contributing—

“I don’t know that I did anything specific,” said Arthur at last. “Monday is far more active than he used to be, but I don’t think I did anything to make him like that.” The Dawns Arthur spent the most time with—Friday’s and Wednesday’s—seemed to think that the breaking of the Will had twisted the Trustees and that Arthur’s presence was somehow healing them, but Arthur couldn’t forget Sunday’s cold behaviour from just a few minutes ago.

“Things have changed in the House,” said Fred.

Arthur bit his lip. “For the better?” It was an unfair question. He resisted the urge to glance back over his shoulder.

“Yes.” No hesitation. “And I don’t mean the recent change of higher ups in the Middle House.”

“Dawn—er, you know—”

“Yeah.”

“It’s thanks to him that the Middle House functions as well as it does.” On that point, Arthur was certain. And he couldn’t see that Friday’s behaviour had changed at all. In his earliest memories, Monday was often shut away in his room, sleeping; or dozing off nearby. Now, he napped rather infrequently, and barely ever nodded off in the middle of a meeting. By contrast, Friday was much the same as she always had been.

“But I need to focus on the Lower House,” added Arthur. “We can talk when we’re off the Stair.” They’d been climbing for long minutes already. Had the first flight been this long? Though as long as they didn’t run into anyone, Arthur was fine with it taking a little longer.

After at least a hundred steps more, Fred spoke again: “Will we hit another Landing?”

“I hope not.”

Beneath him, the Stair seemed almost to move on its own accord—like he was climbing an escalator, rather than a static structure.

 _My room in the Lower House. My room in the Lower House._ “Get ready!”

They stepped out of the light together.


End file.
